Repeating History
by simplyshelbs16
Summary: Follows two timelines: 1894 and 2016 (post-TFP). Through dreams of their past lives as Victorian versions of themselves, Sherlock and Molly gain insight into the Modern Ripper case they embark on whilst trying to find their footing romantically. In 1894, Sherlock meets Margaret Hooper, who helps him with the supposed return of Jack the Ripper, and inevitably makes him fall in love.
1. Then and Now

**1894**

_Scouring the depths of London's dark streets, two gentlemen accompany the Detective Inspector to the scene of the crime that had occurred only two hours ago. They are fresh on the trail of a man who plans to terrorize the city for months, and to never make it easy for anyone to figure out when or where he may strike next._

_"Dear God, Holmes, what do you make of this?" John Watson asked his colleague, his face twisted in horror, gesturing toward the young woman lying cold on the dark city street. She had been brutally murdered, as her intestines were in a jumble sprouting from within her. Her stomach appeared to be missing as well. It was a most gruesome sight, indeed._

_ Sherlock Holmes, a distinguished and somewhat modern gentleman of his time, studied the body for any leads. He scrunched his nose in the slightest as he bent down to survey the handiwork of the murderer. Tracing a gloved finger over one side of the opening, he noticed how clean the cut was. "Whomever opened this woman up has a clear understanding of medical procedures, and a tenacity for the most gruesome murders, not unlike another madman who had been running around." His voice was a deep baritone, smooth as whisky._

_ Watson paced frantically, his bushy mustache in motion from the way he was wriggling his nose. "You don't mean to say that The Ripper is back, do you, Holmes?"_

_ "Who is to say he ever left?" Sherlock quipped, a smirk showing upon his face. "It may be him, or it may be another who was inspired by The Ripper's work." He brought up a calloused hand to smooth his already slicked-back hair. "I have reason to believe it is the latter, as the victim was not a woman of the streets." He paused, and pointed toward her hand. "For instance, gripped in her hand is a nursing chatelaine. If you notice," he continued, lifting an item hanging from the chatelaine, "these scissors were used to ward off her attacker as you can see from the bloodstains. It does concern me, however, that this is the second nurse to have been killed in the span of three weeks."_

_ "Fascinating, Holmes," Watson mused. "How in the devil do you do it?" It was a rhetorical question, though Sherlock seemed to find it a necessity to answer it for the simple-minded. They continued to converse, both oblivious to the fact that they were not alone. Neither realised there had been a pair of eyes watching them throughout the ordeal, also fascinated by the accuracy of Sherlock's deductions._

* * *

_ Ah, the scent of formaldehyde was a welcoming one. It marked what his elder brother, Mycroft, deemed his 'home away from home.' The hospital was bustling as usual with nurses and doctors taking care of their many patients. Sherlock walked through the west corridor toward the main office when a nurse bumped right into him._

_ "Oh, I am so terribly sorry, sir!" She bent down to pick up the towels she had dropped; only standing upright to face him when they were decently re-folded. Sherlock took note of her appearance right away. Her chestnut locks were curled, and up tight against her head despite the flyaway hairs that stuck to her face. Her eyes were a deep shade of brown, and sparkled beautifully. She had a petite stature, only coming up to his chest. There was a stethoscope hanging from around her shoulders, and her chatelaine was properly attached at the waist._

_ He nodded his head in acknowledgment. "All is well, Miss…"_

_ "Hooper," she informed him, a sweet smile showing on her face. "Margaret Hooper, but you can call me Molly. May I ask for your name?"_

_ "Oh, well, it's—"_

_ "Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe!" Mike Stamford exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "I see you've met our most promising nurse! Miss Molly Hooper is an excellent nurse, and a gifted pathologist to boot!" This small fact had suddenly fascinated the detective._

_ "A pathologist? Is that right?" He flashed a smile of pure wonderment. Miss Hooper, however, appeared to be avoiding his gaze. "You must be quite brilliant!" Sherlock had always been supportive of women getting ahead in what society deemed 'a man's world.' This, however, was the first time he'd come across such a woman in person._

_ "Thank you, kindly, Mister Holmes," she replied in a gentle tone of voice. "If you were to ever find yourself in need of service of the forensic nature, do not hesitate to call on me." With a subtle nod of her head, she left the two men for her nursing duties. Stamford just so happened to notice the way Sherlock's eyes followed after her until she disappeared around the corner. Perhaps, the detective had finally found himself bewitched by a woman whose intelligence could be a match for his own. _

_ Stamford spoke up to recapture Holmes's attention. "So, what is it you need to talk with me about?"_

_ Sherlock quickly snapped out of his thoughts, replying, "Oh yes, I was going to ask if you've any reason to be wary around any of your employees? Particularly male."_

_ "None that I can think of; they all seem pretty sane to me," Stamford joked with a belly laugh. "Is there a reason for such an inquiry?"_

_ "We found a woman murdered late last night; another nurse. No identification yet, but it looks as if the murderer has extensive medical knowledge. I have reason to believe that the nurses you have employed here may be in grave danger." Sherlock immediately thought of Miss Hooper on a slab, herself, but banished the thought from his mind. "Let me know if you suspect anyone, Stamford. It could save lives."_

_ With a flourish, Sherlock rushed out of the hospital doors, eager to view the preliminary results of the autopsy that Lestrade had acquired. He was fairly certain that if or when there was another murder, Sherlock would make his preference of pathologist known. It was strange to him to feel a strong connection with someone after only just meeting them, but there was something about Miss Hooper that fascinated him. For somebody who was surrounded by death, she was quite the cheerful damsel._

* * *

**2016**

Molly Hooper had been feeling odd for the past couple of weeks, for that's how long it had been since the phone call Eurus Holmes had forced Sherlock to make. Granted, she and Sherlock have been in a relationship since then as well, but it still took some getting used to. Molly thought at first that it was just the usual jitters she was used to getting around him lately, but couldn't help but think it was something else causing it. As to what it could be, she hadn't the faintest idea. Instead of dwelling on the growing anxiety, she decided to snap on a pair of latex gloves in preparation for the autopsy she was called in by Stamford for.

"Victim's name is Lucille Hornsby," she spoke into the voice recorder. "Thirty-two years old. Victim appears to have been murdered by way of strangulation, followed by the removal of the lungs. Incisions appear to be of a professional nature, as the organs appear to have been extracted with great care." Releasing the record button, Molly felt her stomach coil in knots, feeling a pair of eyes on her. She dared not turn around, for fear had struck her frozen.

"Don't stop on my account, darling."

Whirling around, Molly exhaled heavily, a hand pressed against her chest. "Jesus, Sherlock, you scared the devil out of me!"

"Quite the statement, Molly," he replied, obviously amused. Sherlock now stood beside her, studying the body. "How is our case going?"

Furrowing her eyebrows, Molly looked up at him. "Ah—_our_ case?" Sherlock simply looked at her as if this were an obvious fact. "So soon after Sherrinford? And your parents?"

"I need to keep my mind preoccupied after everything; I mustn't lose my touch after all," he explained. "Oh! And my parents are expecting us for dinner; we'll be going someplace upscale I assume as it is Mycroft's treat."

Molly's mind was racing, unable to keep up with all that had been thrown at her in the span of two minutes. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy working cases with Sherlock, but that she had been worried about him as of late. Neither of them were quite used to their change in relationship status, and his emotional and psychological wounds were only just beginning to heal. They had only been finding their footing for two weeks, and he wanted her to meet his parents tonight!? "Sherlock," she began, but he was still rambling.

"…and I was hoping we could—"

"Sherlock!" Molly's own jaw couldn't help but drop in the slightest, as it was very rare for her to raise her voice at him. "I'm sorry, I just—this is all a bit much right now." Sherlock looked as if he were a puppy who had been kicked.

It took a moment, but he finally spoke, though his voice was much softer, and less confident than before. "Do you mean to say this case is too much, or the bit about meeting my parents?" Molly opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock added on one last thing. "Or is this,"—he took a breath—"about us?" He noticed a flicker of something in her eyes.

She avoided his gaze, unable to face him as she said, "I don't know." Her heart felt heavy. "Maybe." In all honesty, she wasn't sure what the issue was, and she told him as much. "I'm not sure."

"Okay…" Sherlock remarked, looking around awkwardly. "We're not breaking up…are we?" The worry he felt was written plainly on his face.

"N—no, of course not," Molly assured him.

"And we're still working the case together?" he asked out of curiosity.

"Yes, and I do need to finish my autopsy if I'm going to be of any help," Molly pointed out.

Taking a cold, clinical tone, Sherlock replied, "Right, well, carry on, then."

* * *

Sherlock arrived at Mycroft's just barely in time before they were to leave for the restaurant, along with his parents. He was disappointed that Molly wouldn't be joining them tonight. Even worse, he was going to have to explain why she wasn't there. Peering his head around the corner, into the sitting room, he saw his parents sitting on the sofa whilst Mycroft remained upright. Taking a deep breath, he entered the room.

"Sherlock, dear, there you are!" Mrs. Holmes said sweetly, standing up to give her son a hug.

"Yes, and I am sorry, but I'm afraid Molly isn't going to be able to make it. She's come down with something," he lied.

"What do you mean?" Mr. Holmes asked. "She's upstairs."

Sherlock scrunched up his face in bafflement. "She's—?" He heard the soft tap of Molly's flats hit the stairway. Looking up, he couldn't help but stare. Molly was there, dressed in a vintage style cotton dress. It was a deep shade of purple with a sweetheart neckline, and puffed short sleeves. There were decorative buttons—five of them—going down the middle of the bodice. Her hair cascaded over her left shoulder, and had been styled in loose 1920s waves.

"Ready to go?" Molly asked once she finished her descent into the sitting room, and looping her arm through Sherlock's. They walked a few paces behind everyone else in order to speak without an audience.

Sherlock was confused to say the least. "Molly?" he whispered. "Not that I'm not happy you're here, but I thought you weren't coming. Remember? The row we had?"

Molly, leaning closer to him replied softly, "I know, but I thought things over, and the important thing is that I'm sorry. I want to spend this time with you and your family. It's important to not only you, but me too. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that earlier."

He stopped just before exiting through the front door, unknowing that his family had stopped to watch them from the town car. "We'll talk tonight?" he asked, whispering in her ear. Molly smiled in response, fully aware of the eyes watching them. Sherlock hadn't gotten the memo until after he softly kissed her on the cheek, when his mum spoke up.

"Oh, you two are just darling!"

This was going to be a long night...

* * *

**Author's Note:** This is the most complex fic I've every written, so please bare with me. If you don't understand something, please don't hesitate to PM me with any questions. I have combed through these chapters several times over, rewritten them several times over, etc.


	2. In Another Life

**1894**

_Arriving at Scotland Yard, Sherlock Holmes was met with Detective Inspector Lestrade. The autopsy reports told him what he already knew, though he knew much more than what this so-called pathologist knew. He had a tendency to miss some things, he begrudgingly admitted, but it was usually a minor a detail. "Lestrade, I'd like to request a change of pathologist."_

_"Sherlock, we can't just fire the bloke," Lestrade pointed out. "So, his reports are a bit lackluster, t—" The consulting detective was already walking away._

_Before he exited through the doors, Sherlock put in his request. "For all future cases in which I am involved, autopsies will be done by Miss Molly Hooper at St. Bartholomew's, no exceptions."_

_"But—"_

_"No. Exceptions." Sherlock refused to budge on this request. "Oh, and by the way, your usual pathologist missed a key feature that I noticed in the photographs. Heed my request, and I will tell you what that feature is." Making his ever-so-dramatic exit, Sherlock left behind a dumbfounded Lestrade who had no choice but to have Miss Hooper on call. _

_He roamed the streets of London—a favourite pastime of his—and took in the brisk air that he welcomed wholeheartedly. One could argue that he shouldn't be out whilst a murderer runs rampant, but Sherlock had a feeling he'd be the last person in danger. As he turned a corner, Sherlock ran right into the person he had anticipated seeing again. "Miss Hooper! I am sorry, I did not see you."_

_With a laugh, she replied, "We keep meeting each other like this! I'm afraid that chaos surrounds the two of us, no matter where we go."_

_"What are you doing out so late? It isn't safe for you with a murderer running around." Sherlock didn't wait for her to respond before he continued talking. "I would have peace of mind if you'd allow me to walk you home." _

_Molly tucked a stray hair behind her ear, and smiled kindly. "I only live the next street over; it's just me and my father, but he's very ill, you see, and…I've no idea why I'm telling you all of this." Her cheeks were flushed in the loveliest way. She felt like a fool until she saw the soft smile on his lips, and the patience in his eyes. His reputation certainly didn't coincide with the man she saw in front of her. When she had mentioned his name to the other nurses, particularly her friend, Meena, they all had the worst stories about the man. They called him insufferable, strange, and bad-mannered, among other things. "I would feel better if you were to walk with me, though."_

_"A wise choice, Miss Hooper; there is safety in numbers." God, he couldn't seem to stop admiring her attributes that shown plainly on her face; soulful brown eyes, an inviting upturned nose that he may or may not have imagined nuzzling his own nose against. He could hear his brother's voice in his head telling him that sentiment was nothing but a chemical defect, and though he usually lived by that phrase, Sherlock couldn't remember why whilst he was in Miss Hooper's presence. _Oh,_ he thought, _what have I gotten myself into?

* * *

_ Sitting in his armchair, the crackling fire giving off the most pleasing orange glow, Sherlock pulled his pipe from his mouth, thinking over the case. He had to figure out when and where the murderer may strike next. Granted, when the first nurse was found dead, nobody thought this would turn out to be a string of murders from when Jack the Ripper haunted their streets, but Sherlock had known better. The feature of interest was a prominent, but small carving behind the victim's ear. Three small H's were cut into the flesh post-mortem. This was a calling card if ever he saw one._

_ His eyes shifted to the door that was now opening. Mrs. Hudson peered inside, smiling when she saw him. "The detective inspector is here to see you." He motioned for her to send him in, and stood to greet him. _

_ "Lestrade!" he exclaimed. "Have you done as I asked?"_

_ "Yes, and she did find something that wasn't in the report, but—"_

_ "And what did she find?" Sherlock asked._

_ "Three H's carved below the ear, but Sherlock—"_

_ "I knew she was observant enough to find the key feature," he smiled, his head now filled with thoughts of Molly Hooper. _

_ Lestrade was becoming impatient, and was tired of being interrupted. "Sherlock!" he snapped. "There's been another murder; another nurse has been attacked." _

_ Arriving at the crime scene, Sherlock realised that they were only a couple of streets over from where Molly resided. The victim's jet black hair was matted to her face from sweat and blood. She, too, had been cut open, her lungs missing. "Do we know which hospital she works at?"_

_ "St. Bartholomew's," replied Lestrade. "Her name's Meena Bennett. I had met with her a couple of times. I think she's friends with the pathologist you requested." This answer is what Sherlock had been afraid of. He definitely did not want Molly to have to autopsy her friend's body. Crouching on the ground, he checked behind her ear for the calling card. Lo-and-behold, it was there just as it was on the previous two nurses. "You don't still want Miss Hooper to do this autopsy, do you?"_

_ "No," Sherlock replied. "I will have a word with Stamford to see if he has another pathologist qualified enough for the job."_

_ When he arrived at the morgue in St. Bartholomew's two hours later, however, Sherlock found a grief-stricken Molly in the room, preparing for an autopsy. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her skin blotchy from crying. "What are you doing here? Did they not get somebody else to do the autopsy?" He felt angry that she had been put in this position._

_ "They were going to," she told him, her voice thick with emotion. "But I insisted." Molly took no time in pushing aside her emotions, adopting a calculated tone of voice as she began the autopsy. She was a most resilient woman, determined to do right by her best friend. Unlike the pathologist Lestrade once worked with, she didn't seem to mind having him there at all._

* * *

**2016**

Dinner would have been going marvelously had his mother not continued to shoot rapid fire questions at him and Molly. She asked them things that Molly surely had answered long before they were together, but it seemed his mum wanted the answers straight from him tonight. It was, he supposed, the least he could do after everything.

"Molly," Mr. Holmes spoke quietly to her as his wife chatted on about a variety of things to their sons. "How are you feeling, my dear?"

Scooting her chair closer toward Sherlock's father, she leaned in, and said softly, "It's a bit overwhelming, to be honest. Is it obvious?"

"Very," he replied, patting her hand with his own. "A bit of advice in dealing with my wife—as much as I love her—don't be afraid to deflect any questions you don't feel comfortable answering. Changing the subject sometimes works as well."

"I'll keep that in mind, thank you," Molly smiled at him. It was beginning to feel a little too warm in the restaurant for her liking, and she began to tune out the conversation, mixing her salad languidly with her fork. Thoughts continued to swirl around, muddling her mind. Seriously, why was it so damn hot in here? Molly's throat suddenly ran dry, and she had no choice but to gulp down her water.

"Molly, dear, is everything alright?" Mrs. Holmes looked at her in concern as if she were her own daughter. Mr. Holmes gave her a sympathetic look as if he knew how she must be feeling. At first glance, Mycroft looked indifferent, but he cared for Molly like a sister, his concern only showing in his eyes.

"Molly." Sherlock's voice cut through the commotion as he held her hand in his. "What do you need?"

"Air," she managed to croak out, sliding her hand out of his, and heading towards the exit. Sherlock replayed their earlier conversation in the morgue, already knowing what was inevitably going to happen next.

"I may need to take Molly home," he told his family. "Thank you for dinner, Mycroft." He then looked over at his parents. "Sorry that Molly and I have to cut this short, but—"

"Don't worry about it, Sherlock, we understand," his mother assured him. "The poor girl was having a panic attack; give her my apology if my being over-excited caused it."

"I'm sure it wasn't you, mummy, but I'll pass it on, regardless." Sherlock gave a small reassuring smile, and grabbed the purse that Molly left behind.

* * *

With her head in her hands, Molly sat on the steps outside trying to calm down. She felt awful for having to run out on everyone like that, but her fears and anxiety rose much too quickly. Without looking over, she knew Sherlock had just sat down beside her, as the smell of cloves and wood smoke wafted in the air. With a brave face, she looked up at his worried face, but was unable to hold back the sob that cut through her throat. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

He wrapped her in his arms, hugging her close to him. "It's okay, Molly. I understand." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm sorry for jumping the gun, and rushing us through the motions of—well, whatever this is."

Molly kept her voice level, telling him what she needed to say earlier. She had wanted to make him happy tonight; to see that bright smile of his that made him look ten years younger. It had all been worth it even if tonight didn't end well. "We'll still work on the case together, but outside of that, I just need some space."

"I know." It was a simple reply, but it let her know that he had already seen this coming. "May I at least share a cab with you to make sure you get home safely? After all, there is a serial killer on the loose."

"I'd rather walk, if you don't mind," she told him, watching as he stood. "And yes, you may walk me home."

Sherlock helped her up off the ground. "You have an uncanny ability to read minds, Miss Hooper." There was no humor in his tone. Normally, he would've laughed or smiled, but Sherlock couldn't muster anything of the kind.

Their walk was quiet, filled with tension so thick, it could be cut by a knife. Molly didn't want to have to do this, but if she and Sherlock were to ever make a real go at a relationship, she needed to put herself first for once. She mentally thanked Sherlock for catching on so quickly. It was quite amazing, and a bit disconcerting, at how much he had changed in such a short span of time. Though, the thing is, he never really changed—no, that wasn't the right word. Sherlock had an emotional breakthrough thanks to his sister, although her methods were the very definition of madness.

Sherlock was the first to cut the silence when they finally reached her door. "Please, take care of yourself, Molly. I am so very sorry for springing all of this on you. Take as much time as you need, but just know that whether you decide you don't want this or not, I do love you. Very much."

She gave a soft chuckle. "I'm not out of your life completely, Sherlock, but thank you. It really isn't anyone's fault." Molly wanted to tell him she loved him too, but, for some reason, she couldn't get herself to utter the words. "Are you going to be alright?"

The tension in his face faded away immediately, and he broke out a wide grin. "Me? I'll be fine." With such an expression, Molly would have almost believed it, but his eyes betrayed him, a sadness hidden in the depths of his ocean irises. Regardless, she had to believe it for their sake. "Don't worry about me, Molly, really, there's no need."

"That's what you said last time before—"

"Before I went on a drug binge, I know, but I promise you I'm through with it," Sherlock assured her. "It's not worth losing my life over, nor is it worth hurting those who care for me." There was a moment of silence.

"Well, I should probably go inside before I catch my death out here," Molly remarked. "Goodnight, Sherlock." She turned to go inside, and he watched until he knew she was safely in her flat. He then turned away, allowing the darkness to swallow him up as he walked away, unknowing that a pair of soft brown eyes watched him go.

* * *

Cold, inhuman eyes watched the detective leave the pathologist's flat, noticing how her eyes followed him from the window until he had disappeared. How interesting it was to him that Sherlock Holmes was on the side of the angels, just as James Moriarty once said. He must be punished for going against his true nature. It was time to act, but not yet on Miss Hooper. No, he would save her for last. There was no fun in the game if he didn't get the fear and anxiety rising in Sherlock Holmes; fear of how his beloved will soon die.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sherlock and Molly seem to be getting along in 1894, and 2016 Molly's getting a little breathing room, but it probably won't last for long...


	3. It's All There, in Your Head

**Author's Note: **I kept Mary alive for this fic, though she doesn't play a huge role. I just miss Mary.

* * *

**1894**

_It was late—nearly midnight—and Sherlock looked out his window at the foggy city. It was so chilling outside, he could practically see the cold front moving in. There were few people who came out at such an hour; most being criminals, junkies, or secret lovers. That is why it piqued his curiosity when he noticed a young woman approach the outside door to 221B. What would possess her to arrive here at such an hour, especially walking alone at night with a murderer on the loose? Mrs. Hudson's voice cut through his thoughts._

_ "Mister Holmes? You have a client," she informed him. _

_ "Let her in, Mrs. Hudson, thank you," he replied. Whatever he imagined this client to be after, he was not prepared for it. In walked Molly Hooper, clutching her bag, her eyes full of determination. "Miss Hooper." _

_ Molly returned his greeting with a small curtsy. "I am sorry for the late hour, Mister Holmes, but I know you are the only person who can help me." _

_ Sherlock gestured for her to sit in the client chair set between where he and Watson normally rested. "What is it that you need, Miss Hooper?" He observed her body language, noting that she was nervous about whatever his answer may be to her request._

_ "As you know, my best friend has been brutally murdered," she spoke softly, her voice breaking. "I wish to know who is behind this as much as you do." Sherlock nodded in encouragement for her to go on. Taking a deep breath, she continued. "I know that Doctor Watson is your partner in crime solving, but I do know he is married and that his wife is with child, close to giving birth very soon."_

_ Sherlock looked at her with the curiosity of a cat. "I see you've done your research, Miss Hooper. Impressive."_

_ "Well, actually, Mister Holmes, I have met Mrs. Watson, as her usual doctor had not been in for quite a while. Nobody knows where he's gone off to," Molly explained. "What I'm asking is if I can help you to bring Meena's murderer to justice?"_

_ Sherlock pondered this idea for so long that when thirty minutes had passed, Molly took matters into her own hands. She lightly shook his shoulder with her gloved hand, hoping he would snap out of it. Sherlock jumped when he finally came to, looking up at the most brilliant woman he had ever met. "I am sorry, Miss Hooper, I must have thought I answered you already." _

_ She giggled; a sweet melodic sound to his ears. "It is quite alright, Mister Holmes. What do you say?"_

_ "As you are correct about Doctor Watson being quite busy at the moment, I say that you are welcome to investigate with me," Sherlock told her, a genuine smile on his face. "I must warn you though, I can be a bit—"_

_ "Abrasive?" Molly provided. "I have been forewarned about your behaviours, Mister Holmes."_

_ "And you aren't…shocked?" He wondered if she knew about the seven percent solution he'd sometimes use._

_ "It takes more than your seven percent solution to shock me," she remarked. _

_ Sherlock was taken aback. This woman knew very much about him. He stood up from his chair, facing her, only a few inches between them. "And what if we run into the murderer, Miss Hooper? What then? I cannot have a damsel in distress to worry about on a case such as this." His harsh tone did nothing to repel her. This told him that she could handle his worst attitudes._

_Molly Hooper stood her ground, unwavering. "I am a woman of intellect and resilience, as you may have already deduced. I am not a fine piece of delicate china, Mister Holmes. I will not be shattered so easily."_

_The tension was thick, but Sherlock was more than satisfied with Molly's comeback at his attempt to deter her. They stood in such close proximity that if he were to lean down just a bit, his lips would touch hers. Her deep brown eyes held a fierce determination as she bore her gaze into his ocean eyes. Neither of them realised that Doctor Watson had been a witness to the last minute of their conversation…at least, not until the man cleared his throat._

_"Doctor Watson." Molly snapped out of her fixation on Sherlock. "I must be going. Thank you again, Mister Holmes."_

_Before she could leave, Sherlock spoke up. "There is a guest room upstairs. I'll not have you walking the streets alone at this time of night, Miss Hooper." He watched as she paused to think about it, eventually nodding her head in thanks before disappearing upstairs._

_"Oh, Holmes, you do fancy her," Watson remarked. _

_"What? No I don't," Holmes argued. "I do not bother with fanciful romantic entanglements, Watson, you know that."_

_"You may find yourself in love with her one day," Watson continued. Holmes was not taking it well._

_As the two men continued to argue, their voice rose higher. Molly was attempting to sleep when she heard the baritone of Sherlock's unmistakable voice._

_"She means nothing to me!" he had shouted. "Miss Hooper is merely a client, and nothing more, Watson!"_

_The cold truth sliced through her like a scalpel. These past few weeks, she was sure they had a lovely friendship blooming, but perhaps it was all a charade after all. Tears silently fell down her cheeks, as she waited for sleep to succumb her. She would not allow this to deter her from her duty to find this killer. Not one man should dare to get in her away, let alone Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

**2016**

_"She means nothing to me!"_ That was the last thing Sherlock could remember from his strange dream last night. His head throbbed with pain as if he had imbibed too much alcohol. Everyone he knew and loved was there, but in a Victorian setting. The dream had been so vivid, he could've sworn that this happened to him in his lifetime. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Mary's asked, "_But which lifetime?" _It was balderdash; there were no such things as past lives.

Every morning since the family dinner, Sherlock found that he had to continue reminding himself that Molly wanted a break from him; at least, romantically. It had hurt him, but he wanted her to be happy, even if it was without him in the picture. It hurt more that he hadn't even heard from her since. In the meantime, there were a few appointments he needed to make, but they'd have to wait until later. Greg Lestrade rushed into 221B, urgency written across his face.

"There's been two more murders," he informed him. "I need you to come with me, Sherlock."

Fear flooded through him, an icy feeling prickling his skin. "Is it Molly?" He felt panic rising within him.

"God, no, Sherlock, I'm sorry for worrying you like that. We need you because there's a note for you. It's typed, but maybe you can get something from it," Greg explained. Sherlock nodded, and slipped on his coat. The game was on, and he knew that the further this went, the more dangerous it would become.

Upon his arrival at the crime scene, Sherlock was immediately graced by Sally Donovan's presence. Delightful. He was far from being in the mood for whatever tirade she was sure to go on.

"Freak," she greeted him. "Heard about you and Hooper; sounds like she finally got in her right mind."

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. "And what," he huffed, "is _that_ supposed to mean?"

A derisive smile graced Donovan's face. "It means that the girl has finally realised that she's too good for you, and it only took a month of dating you."

For the first time, her words affected him. He and Molly were only on a break, but maybe it was because she had truly realised that he was no good for her.

"Sherlock!" Greg called to him. He motioned for the detective to follow him.

Glad for a reason to leave Donovan's presence, Sherlock followed Lestrade, immediately kneeling between the two bodies to read the bloodstained note.

**I am the Hunter**

**But you're not the prey**

**Your heart will be torn asunder**

**Think of your family**

**It will pave the way**

**Does the Devil live within me?**

**You wonder**

"It's a riddle," Sherlock stated. "Why is Hunter capitalized?"

"I'm not sure," Greg confessed. "Haven't been able to make heads or tails of it, but I was sure it was meant for you."

After snapping a photo of the note, Sherlock placed it in an evidence bag. He planned to do nothing but comb through the words until something clicked. Hunter was capitalized, he had to think of his family; how did it all connect? There were no Hunters in his family, not surname or first name. That's when he heard a car door slam, and looked up to see Molly smiling at him.

* * *

"Wow, you look like you rose from the dead," Mary remarked as she strolled into the lab with lunch for her and Molly. The pathologist's hair was tied back into the limpest ponytail; her eyes looked red and puffy from lack of sleep or perhaps having cried herself to sleep. The cheerfulness that Molly usually exuded was no longer there, as if a star had gone out. She didn't even laugh at the awful joke Mary had just made.

"Long night," was all Molly said as she began to examine a specimen of bacteria with the microscope.

"What's going on?" Mary asked, wondering what had gone wrong. "I haven't heard anything since your dinner with Sherlock and his family last week. Did everything go well, love?"

Molly lifted her head from the microscope to look at her friend. "It was all very"—she shoved her notebook aside—"lovely."

Mary arched an eyebrow. "Then what's wrong, poppet?"

Molly took a deep, shaky breath, planning to get straight to the point, but went off on a rant. "It's funny, because this is everything I've always wanted, regardless of the fact I never expected it to happen. I want this—I do—but I haven't had time to breathe since Sherlock's almost-exile." Mary approached the lab table, setting down the takeaway bags. "Mary, I called things off with him just to get some space. It was one of the most difficult things I had to do." She laughed in disbelief. "Helping him fake his death was so much easier." Molly didn't dare divulge about her strange dream last night. It was Victorian times, and she had been listening to Sherlock and John arguing from the upstairs bedroom of 221B. They were arguing about her. The last thing she could remember was Sherlock's voice, cold and cruel, claiming that she meant nothing to him.

Just when Mary was about to offer some advice, Molly's mobile went off, notifying her of a text from Lestrade. "It's Greg; he needs me at the crime scene where two women were slain. Anderson has called in sick. Of course."

"Molly, love, before you go, just listen to what I have to say," Mary told her. "I understand why you had to distance yourself, and whilst it was hard for you, I'm proud that you're putting your wellbeing first." She took Molly's hand as a gesture of motherly comfort. "Just make sure that this is what you want. If you feel you need to take things slow with Sherlock—and it looks to be that way—let him know when you're ready for him."

"You know, I wondered all night if it was a break I needed, or if I just need us to focus on our friendship first," Molly confessed. "I don't want him cut out of my life whilst I deal with this. He's—" she took a breath—"he's my person."

"Your person?" Mary repeated amusingly. "Re-watching Grey's Anatomy I see."

"Shut up," Molly laughed whilst gathering her things. She waved goodbye to Mary as she exited through the doors. She and Sherlock would be working together today, and she used the time it took for her cab ride to try and get herself together. Her heart pounded furiously in her chest when she spotted Sherlock through the backseat window. He was in deep concentration as he examined the bodies, his brows furrowed as if something wasn't adding up. Molly paid the driver, and exited the vehicle, taking a deep breath. His eyes locked with hers immediately as if he could sense her presence. _Perhaps he can_. They shared a smile before getting to work.

* * *

**1894**

_ Her heart beat in time with the pounding in her head. Sleep had been scarce after all she had heard last night. Molly sat up quickly, the room spinning much too fast. Her hand went to grasp the bedding, only she heard the crinkling of paper. After the dizziness subsided, she took a deep breath before reading the contents of the letter._

_ **To whomever it may concern,**_

**_ I reside in Sherrinford._**

**_ Having problems with ol' Jack?_**

**_ Don't forget about Reichenbach._**

**_ If it is answers you want discovered,_**

**_ I suggest visiting your dear, old brother._**

_ "How curious," Molly muttered aloud. It was a riddle, and clearly meant for Sherlock. She could hardly imagine how awful it would feel to face him, but she had the advantage in that he does not know she heard him last night. This note was important, but the question was who wrote it? Also, who delivered it? Chills ran up her spine at the thought of a stranger—possibly a murderer—had snuck into her temporary room. _

_ Deciding that Sherlock's immediate attention be given to this letter, Molly flew down the stairs in only her chemise, uncaring of what was proper in a situation such as this._

_ Upon spotting the detective standing by the fire, lost in his thoughts, Molly rushed right to his side. "Mister Holmes, I found this letter in the bed I was sleeping in, and I think it is imperative to our case."_

_ Sherlock spared a quick glance before taking the letter from her hands, but looked back at her, noticing her state of…undress. The firelight was illuminating the fabric, making it noticeably transparent. He averted his eyes quickly, swallowing the lump that began to form in his throat, and began scanning the letter. "Impossible."_

_ "What?" Molly asked, her hand grasping his arm gently. "What is it?"_

_ "It appears I must have a word with my dear brother," Sherlock huffed. "Make sure you are properly dressed by the time I return, Miss Hooper…I shall not be returning alone." _

* * *

_ Sherlock Holmes was practically fuming. How could this be? Apparently, his brother knew the answer._

_ "Sherlock," Mycroft Holmes greeted his brother. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" He bit into a pastry, unaware of his brother's anger._

_ "Moriarty's alive, isn't he?" Sherlock felt it best to get straight to the point. He stared down his brother until, finally, he spoke._

_ "What does it matter now? He's locked up in Sherrinford," Mycroft told him. No explanation as to how Moriarty survived, no concern that he may be puppeteering the murders._

_ "How!?" Sherlock shouted. "How is he alive?"_

_ "Don't be arrogant, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped. "You're not the only person who can survive a fall." He looked his little brother dead in the eye. "We found him unconscious not long after, and I suggested he be locked up, seeing as he did not, in fact, perish."_

_ "I need you to come to Baker Street. Now," Sherlock urged his brother. "Lives may be at stake if you do not cooperate."_

_ Mycroft sighed with resignation. "Very well, then."_

* * *

_ Molly was only half-dressed by the time she heard Sherlock come back. She wondered if he had brought his brother back with him to help them decipher the riddle. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and she quickly finished tying the laces on her boots, not wanting his brother to see her in such a state. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered being in only her chemise earlier. Now, if only she could get these damn corset laces tightened and tied. The knock on the door caused her to nearly jump out of her skin. _

_ "Miss Hooper?" Sherlock called to her. "I'd like you to come downstairs. If you are to be on this case, you must talk with my brother post-haste." He jumped back slightly when Molly opened the door only wide enough for him to see her face poke through. _

_ "Do you think you could help me first? I cannot seem to get these laces tied for the life of me," she told him._

_ "Yes, of course," he replied, opening her door the rest of the way. He swallowed hard as he tightened her laces, each tug increasing the soft swell of her breasts. Being so close to her, he could smell honeysuckle on her skin. How could he possibly work this case with her if she drove him wild with desire every time he stood near her? This was a problem. He'd have to be careful._

_ "Thank you," she smiled at him after he had finished. "Shall we go see your brother?" Sherlock only gave a curt nod in response before walking ahead of her, expecting her to follow behind. She did so, and was greeted by the dumbfounded look on the eldest Holmes's face._

_ "You're not Doctor Watson," Mycroft so obviously pointed out. "Sherlock, who is she?"_

_ "This is Miss Hooper, Mycroft. She is an accomplished pathologist at St. Bartholomew's," Sherlock explained. "Seeing as Watson is busy with his wife and unborn child, she offered her services to help with the case."_

_ Molly fidgeted as Mycroft Holmes scrutinized her. "Yes, well, let us hope that is the only service she is offering to you, brother mine." _

_ "Mycroft!" Sherlock roared. "You will not speak so unkindly of Miss Hooper! I will not tolerate it!" His eyes flickered toward Molly, noting she was not visibly upset, but her eyes held a fierceness he had not yet seen. Her strength was admirable. _

_ Mycroft, realising he had struck a nerve, immediately asked for the note, looking it over. "Moriarty wants you to pay him a visit at Sherrinford, it seems. He has answers about your medical murderer. It seems that Jack the Ripper is still roaming the streets after all."_

_ "Sherrinford?" Molly asked, looking at Sherlock. "What is it, and when are we going?"_

_ "It is a place," Mycroft began, "for the criminally insane."_

_ "She'll not be going," Sherlock firmly stated._

_ "You said I could assist you!" It was not proper for a lady to raise her voice, but in this moment, Molly didn't give a damn. "You cannot stop me from going. I will find a way."_

_ "And I said no, Molly, that's final." He did not shout back, but rather, growled out the words. _

_ "I do not have to listen to you," she told him. "You are neither my husband nor my father, so I will do as I please." For once, Sherlock could say nothing. He knew she was right; she didn't have to listen to him, and she could find her way to Sherrinford through Mycroft if she had to. Lord knows his brother enjoyed getting under his skin. "I am doing this to seek justice for my best friend's murder. How dare you try to keep me from any of it after you had agreed I could assist you." _

_ All was silent in the room with the exception of Molly's heeled boots storming up the stairs, finishing with a slamming door and a burning regret in Sherlock's heart. _

_ "Headstrong, isn't she?" Mycroft remarked, clearly amused. Sherlock, however, was not._

* * *

**Author's Note #2: **So, the dreams of their past lives as slightly different versions of themselves are beginning to appear. Riddles are appearing in both timelines. Having trouble figuring out the murderer? It's not a character from the books or show, but a real infamous serial killer.


	4. Miss Me?

**2016**

"They were both forensics students." Molly couldn't begin to count the number of times she had stated this particular fact out loud as she sat on the curb of the sidewalk.

"Molly." Sherlock crouched down beside her, balancing on his toes. "Are you alright?" His tone was soft, comforting. He knew she wasn't, but figured it was the right thing to say anyways.

"I'm…I don't know. I just think that—"

"It could've been you?" Sherlock asked. He saw her nod in defeat.

She sighed. "I hate feeling so weak around you."

Sherlock sat himself down on the ground beside her, his eyes boring into hers. "You are a lot of things, Molly, but weak is not one of them." He heard the hitch in her breath as he wrapped his arms around her. "You are the strongest woman I know. These young women were like you at one time, and though it gave you a shock, you're still going to perform the autopsies."

The small, nervous laugh that Molly let out told Sherlock he wasn't doing an awful job at comforting her. "The last time I had a shock like this was when Moriarty's face popped up on the telly."

"Perhaps I should find you a shock blanket, then," Sherlock suggested. He tried to pull away to find one, but Molly kept his arms around her.

"You're my shock blanket." It was a strange, simple thing to say, but to Sherlock, it somehow seemed—dare he say it—romantic. Yes, that's the word. He wished to kiss her, but knew it wasn't what she wanted right now. And that was fine. Sherlock knew he would wait for her the rest of his life if he had to.

* * *

"Victim's name is Gabrielle Lennox. Twenty-six years old. Victim appears to have died by strangulation. Her liver has been removed. Judging by the seamless incisions made by the murderer, they are well-trained medically." She paused to take in the information. Lucille's lungs had been removed, and Gabrielle's liver. She also noted that the other girl, named Bethany Atkinson, was missing her kidneys. The murderer was collecting organs.

Molly felt as if she were being watched after having come upon this realisation, but knew it was probably paranoia. Or it was Sherlock again, always scaring the bejeezus out of her. It had been a long evening already, and after the two autopsies, it had quickly faded into night. Her mind kept drifting back to how good it felt to have Sherlock's arms around her. She missed him so much. All she had wanted to do was kiss him. _So why_, she wondered, _did I ever feel like I needed a break?_ Maybe all she needed was for them to take the time to get to know each other all over again. Perhaps they should do the dating thing instead of jumping right into a serious relationship.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she felt the strange sensation again. She could swear someone was watching her sew up a corpse. With a deep breath, she looked up toward the windows that oversaw the morgue, but saw nothing. Turning her head toward the small window in the door, a shadow crossed over it. Molly was sure she was just seeing things, but still picked up a scalpel as she crossed the room toward the door and opened it.

"Hello?" she called out into the seemingly empty hallways. "Sherlock, this isn't funny!" Her voice betrayed the false bravery she wore on her face. Her heart was pounding in her chest when she closed the door tightly. Molly slid her phone out of her pants pocket, and brought up her contacts, dialing the one person she knew would still be awake.

"Where are you?" Molly demanded as soon as the recipient picked up on their end.

"Molly? What's wrong?" Sherlock sounded worried. It hadn't been him trying to scare her.

"There's someone here." Her voice came out as a strangled whisper.

"Are you—"

"Sherlock, I'm sure of it," Molly insisted. "Whoever it is, they're trying to frighten me, and it's working so much I'm afraid to leave the morgue on my own." She exhaled a shaky breath. "Look, I'm sorry, it's probably nothing."

"No, you were right to call, Molly," Sherlock assured her. "I'll be there as fast as I can. Just hold tight. Don't leave the morgue."

* * *

Sherlock couldn't get the riddle out of his head. Someone was watching Molly. Part of the riddle was solved. "I'm not the prey," he pondered aloud. "But my heart will be torn asunder."

_I'll burn the heart…out of you._

_Emotional context, Sherlock, it destroys you every time._

Molly, he realised, was who the serial killer was truly after.

* * *

Time went by slowly, and every little sound that echoed throughout the hall had Molly crouched beneath one of the autopsy tables, scalpel in hand. Minutes felt like hours, and the sudden sound of footsteps jolted her. She slipped out from beneath the table and braced herself, hoping that it was Sherlock. The door opened slowly, revealing the detective, and Molly let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God. Did you see anyone lurkin' about?"

"I—no, I didn't." He closed the space between them in a few long strides. "Are you alright?"

Molly nodded, setting down the scalpel. "Yes, I'm fine." There was a pregnant pause, both unsure of what to say at this point. "Thank you. For coming, that is." Her heart leapt in her throat when Sherlock cradled her face in his hand.

"I'd never let anything happen to you," he told her softly. Sherlock was conflicted. He didn't want to do anything that would cross the line, but damn it all, he pulled her into a tight embrace, happy she was safe.

Molly lifted her head to look up at him, admiring his eyes, full of nothing but genuine love for her. Sod it all. She reached up on her toes, and pressed her lips to his in a slow, tantalizing kiss, her fingers tangling in his curls.

"Mmmm," Sherlock moaned against her mouth, not wanting to ever let it end. _Good God_, he thought, _this woman will be the death of me_. But not for one second did he object to her affections. If this was how he would die, he'd do it gladly. When she pulled herself away, he tried not to look so disappointed, but there was no hiding from Molly. She could always see right through him.

"I don't want a break from you," she confessed.

Sherlock's heart fluttered in his chest. "Then what do you want, Molly?" he asked. "I want to make this work."

"I want to be with you, but we need to slow things down a bit," Molly replied. "We'll work on this case together, but I need you to promise me you'll focus on healing after we've solved it. I'm worried about you." She placed her hand over his heart. "I want us to find our footing; to not jump head first into things. We've all been through one hell of an emotional wringer these past few months."

"I think we can do that," he spoke softly. He wanted to tell her not to worry, that he had been taking care of himself these past few weeks. "I've been to a rehabilitation center." The surprise on her face encouraged him to go on. "It's the first time I've gone for myself rather than because someone else wanted me to." Molly's mouth was slightly agape, knowing this was the first real progress Sherlock had ever made in this area. "I am an addict." His admission was astounding.

"I am so proud of you, Sherlock," Molly told him with a smile. "You should be proud of yourself too. Why do you look so sad?"

"It's what Donovan said to me earlier." He noticed that Molly was about to object to listening to anything that came out of Sally's mouth, but he beat her to the punch. "I know I shouldn't listen to her; I never cared before, but she had me afraid that you realised I wasn't good enough for you. You haven't told me you loved me since the phone call, so of course I'm not. Good enough, that is, but—"

"That's not true," Molly interrupted. "You think I deserve better than you, but Sherlock, I've only ever wanted the best version of you." She leaned up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. Her heart beat rapidly as he swooped in to kiss her, one hand cradling her head, and the other on the small of her back, pressing her so very close to him. All she could do was tug on the lapels of his coat and give herself over to the sensations she was feeling. "I'm so. Sorry," she managed to tell him in between breaths.

He paused to look at her with furrowed brows. "For what, darling?" Sherlock didn't give her much time to answer, as it wasn't long before he kissed her lips again, quickly averting his focus to the inviting warmth of her neck.

"For not," she breathed heavily, "picking up the phone the first time." Molly angled her head to the side so he could access more of her skin. "Mmmm!" Sherlock retreated looking proud of himself for eliciting such a reaction from her.

"Are these impromptu snog sessions in your place of work going to be a frequent occurrence?" He flashed such a gorgeous smile that it triggered the butterflies in her stomach.

Though she knew he was joking, Molly couldn't help but give a serious answer. "We'll see."

* * *

Despite wanting to take things slow, Molly had asked Sherlock to stay with her just for the rest of the night, having been shaken up over what had happened earlier. Molly tossed and turned like the sea. Words—a riddle—floated in her head. Sherlock had only just begun to doze off when she started mumbling words.

"Ire side Sherrinford," she spoke in her sleep. Sherlock sat straight up and turned on the bedside lamp, listening carefully. "Don't forget Rei en bach."

"Molly, wake up," he urged, gently shaking her small form. "What is that you're saying?" Sherlock swore he heard the words 'Sherrinford' and 'Reichenbach.' He conceded that it would be impossible to wake her in such a deep sleep, so he sat quietly in an attempt to make out any other words from her lips.

It wasn't long he had to wait, as Molly shot straight up in bed turned to her nightstand, and dug out a pen and scrap paper. She scribbled on it furiously, unaware of her surroundings until the last word was written. Groaning from her sleepiness, Molly looked down at the words that flowed from her. Sherlock had moved beside her, peering at them over her shoulder. He smoothed her hair back as they read the words aloud together.

"To whomever it may concern, I reside in Sherrinford. Having problems with ol' Jack? Don't forget about Reichenbach. If it is answers you want discovered, I suggest visiting your dear, old brother."

Molly eyed it curiously. "I kept hearing that in my dream like a broken record." She touched a finger to the paper. "I was in bed—not my own—and I had been wearing only a chemise in the Victorian times. The note was left in the bed. I think I was in the upstairs room in your flat on Baker Street, only it couldn't be your flat, unless it was your flat, which would mean we had past lives, and that's just impossible…right?"

Staring at the strange combination of words, Sherlock only had one answer. "I don't know. And I don't like not knowing."

* * *

**1894**

_ She hadn't a clue why she was still here. It was no longer unsafe for her to walk the streets of London. Molly stood from the bed, and decided to leave. One way or another she would get to Sherrinford. _

_ "Miss Hooper." Sherlock's voice washed over her. She refused to open the door. Nope. He was going to have to deal with her silence. "Molly," he pleaded. Damn him._

_ She swung open the door. "What?"_

_ "I would like to apologise for my behaviour," he told her. "In trying to protect you, I angered you, and for that, I am sorry."_

_ Molly couldn't believe what she was hearing. "So let me get this straight," she began. "The man who just last night proclaimed I meant nothing to him is trying to protect me?"_

_ Sherlock's face paled considerably. "You heard that." He ran a hand through his hair, a few curls rejecting the Macassar oil he frequently used to make his hair lie flat. "I did not mean what I said. I do care for you, Miss Hooper. I should hate to see any danger befall you. Sherrinford is a dangerous place, and James Moriarty is not the kind of man you should want to grace with your presence, especially if he is pulling the strings of our murderer."_

_ Though she now knew the truth, Molly was adamant about tagging along. "I understand, Mister Holmes, I do—"_

_ "But you still want to come along," he finished. "I cannot stop you, but I will not promise I won't be an insufferable protector. Can you at least handle that?"_

_ "Yes," she smiled. "I think I could." He cared for her. To know such a thing made her understand his behaviours toward her so much more._

_ "Very well, then." He took her hand in his. "Shall we embark on this adventure?"_

* * *

_ It was the storm of the century with thunder so loud, it shook the Earth, and the lightening crashed around them. It was not ideal weather to travel by ship, but it did not deter Sherlock and Molly from visiting Moriarty in Sherrinford. They were below deck, staying out of the storm, and Sherlock was pacing around the small room. Molly was sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, cattycornered from the bed. "I don't see what all the pacing's about, Mister Holmes. Are you not weary from it yet?"_

_ "No," he snapped. "I am going over hundreds of scenarios of how this meeting will go, and each time, it ends all wrong."_

_ Molly caught his wrist before he could pace to the other side of the room again. "You don't know how any of it will happen; you are not a clairvoyant." She placed her other hand atop of his, her fingers softly stroking his palm. "I know you are worried about me, I understand, but it's no use driving yourself out of your mind because of it. We will not know until we know. We will have to play it by ear."_

_ Sherlock sighed. "I suppose you're right. I need to distract myself."_

_ "What do you propose?" Molly asked. "Tell me what you need." _

_ "You." He noticed that his answer caught her off guard, but not as much as when he pulled her up off the chair, interlaced his fingers with hers, and placed his other hand on her waist. Lowering his lips to her ear, he whispered softly to her, "Dance with me, Miss Hooper."_

_ The light in her eyes was unmistakable. "How will we dance with no music?" Sherlock did not answer her, but instead lead her into a Viennese waltz whilst he hummed a melody she had not yet heard. She followed his lead, light on her feet, as was he. "I am pleasantly surprised, Mister Holmes," she remarked. "I did not take you for the dancing kind."_

_ "I hope I can continue to surprise you, Miss Hooper," he smiled as he twirled her around, being careful as to not send her too far out. They continued on despite the tight quarters they were confined in. Sherlock's heart pounded in his chest upon noticing the adoring smile on Molly's face. He spun her out once more, and drew her in close enough for their bodies to touch._

_ Looking up into the cerulean eyes of the detective, Molly found it was where he kept his emotions. His eyes held the intensity of a brewing storm, not unlike the one outside. "Surprise me again, Mister Holmes," she requested breathily. The desire so plainly written on his face told her things were about to change. She waited with bated breath, holding his gaze with her own until, at last, his lips swept across hers lightly. _

_He lifted his head, silently asking permission with his eyes, and when she nodded her consent, his lips were on hers again with an unbridled passion, walking her back into the wall, his hands caressing her. She deepened their kisses, her tongue now dancing with his, gentle, but demanding. Sherlock groaned softly, low in his throat, her name escaping his lips. The ship rocked to one side, sending them across the room, stumbling until they both hit the bed._

_"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, clearly out of breath._

_"I'm," she breathed heavily, "fine, thanks to you." He had caught her in his arms. Taking advantage of sitting on his lap, Molly brushed her lips across his, her fingers tugging gently on the curls he simply could not tame. She could not read how he was feeling, for the man even mastered the art of hiding the truth in his eyes. Sherlock Holmes did not look at her for the remaining period of time it took to arrive at Sherrinford. _

_The storm had cleared, though the sky was still dark and threatening. Sherrinford had the look of a medieval prison, draining any thoughts of happiness upon approaching its entrance. "Once more unto the breach," Sherlock murmured softly._

_"Shakespeare?" Molly blurted out in question. He spared her a glance of admiration, but did not allow himself to linger. Despite the pain she felt at his callousness, she followed behind him into the unknown nightmares they were sure to walk straight into. _

_The guard pointed down a dark hall, telling them, "Come this way." The scent of decay and agonizing screams were unsettling, but not as much as when arms shot out through the bars of the cells, attempting to grab a hold of them. Molly jumped away to her left to avoid being touched, effectively bumping into Sherlock._

_"Miss Hooper, please watch where you are going," Sherlock huffed in annoyance. Feeling as if he had regretted his actions, Molly wished she could take back what had happened on the ship. She longed to forget what his lips tasted like, felt like. As they moved forward through the dark, dank hall, she berated herself for lingering too long on such thoughts. There was a serial killer out there who had murdered her best friend. She would not allow anything to get in the way of her finding justice for Meena. _

_At last, they approached a large, padlocked steel door with bars over a small window. Molly stepped forward to take a closer look, but Sherlock grasped her wrist with cat-like reflexes. "Mister Holmes, I would appreciate it if you would let go of me this instant." Her voice came out acidic, much harsher than she originally meant, but the message came across as he let his hand fall back to his side. If he was going to be cold, then so was she._

_A soft, chilling voice spoke from within the cell. "Let them in."_

* * *

**Author's Note: **'You're my shock blanket' is now my new favorite Sherlolly form of ILY...but will Molly ever say those three little words again? That nice little snog session on this ship? Yeah, there is an alternate scene that goes further that I had written, but I felt it was too much too soon, but it does exist. Sherlock and Molly's break only lasted a couple of weeks, but it was enough for Molly to figure out that she just wanted to slow down rather than come to a full stop; Her mind is battling her heart.


	5. A Dangerous Game

**1894**

_The chilling voice had the hair on the back of Molly's neck standing on end. Sherlock held an arm out in front of her to keep her away from the door. "Stay here," he ordered quietly._

_"Bring her along," Moriarty's voice drifted out._

_"No." Sherlock's baritone voice boomed._

_"If you want answers, I suggest you not dawdle," Moriarty spoke in a sing-song voice. "Bring her with you; do not mollycoddle." He snickered at his own joke._

_Molly, taking matters into her own hands, stepped in front of Sherlock. "I'll go. He wants to see me, and we need answers. I do not see any reason why we should not give him what he wants. The man is locked up."_

_"He is not a man," Sherlock corrected her, continuing to stare down Moriarty through the small barred window. "He is a spider at the center of a criminal web." Upon giving the guard a nod of approval, he unlocked the cell, allowing Sherlock and Molly to enter. James Moriarty was bound by a straightjacket, sitting in the far right corner of the cell. His hair was long and shaggy, and the stench in the air was that of sweat and God knows what else._

_"Ahhhh," Moriarty began. "If what you seek is an identity, then you must heed my warning. Inside of your home, this man will creep, and one will be gone by morning."_

_"What does he mean?" Molly looked to Sherlock for an answer he did not have._

_"Stop fooling around," Sherlock snapped. "Who is the murderer? Has Jack-the-Ripper come back?"_

_Moriarty grinned like the Cheshire cat. "Good ol' Jack goes by many names; upon hearing the truth you will not be the same."_

_"For God's sakes," Sherlock grumbled, but Moriarty ignored his outburst._

_"He buries his bones in the catacombs, on his way to his well-deserved fame. Think of your family, for it will be clear, the murderer is, in fact, a Holmes." Moriarty was delighted, smug satisfaction on his face._

_Taking a hold of Molly's arm, Sherlock turned them toward the cell door to leave. "I have had enough."_

_It was then that Moriarty began shouting at them. "Margaret Hooper had morbid humour ; too bad she never wed. She fell apart with a broken heart, and all they found was her head."_

_Molly's face paled, feeling sick to her stomach. She prayed that James Moriarty wasn't a clairvoyant, but feared there may be truth to his mad ramblings. The last thing they heard was another riddle, this time about the detective. _

_"Sherlock Holmes upon his throne likes to slay the dragons. He loved to roam amongst funny gravestones, before he fell off the wagon."_

* * *

_"Holmes!" Watson greeted the detective when he answered his door. "How is the case going?"_

_Sherlock only groaned in response._

_"Not well, then," Mary Watson remarked as she waddled into the sitting room. She couldn't help but notice the uncomfortable girl who had sat down beside Sherlock. "Doctor Hooper?" she smiled._

_"Yes, hello, Mrs. Watson!" Molly smiled in return. "Are you feeling quite well?" _

_"I'll feel even better after I give birth," she laughed. Turning to Sherlock, she asked, "When were you going to tell us you were courting this lovely girl?"_

_"What? No," Sherlock laughed. "Miss Hooper is merely a client who happens to be assisting me on this case." Molly looked as if the ground fell from beneath her. This reaction did not escape Mary's notice who now gave the young doctor a once over._

_"Really," Mary replied dryly. "Then perhaps you should have kept your lips to yourself." She felt smug seeing Sherlock's brows furrow. He then took one look at Molly, noticing the mark he had left upon her porcelain skin just above her collarbone. Molly's face flushed, the heat getting to her. She was getting up to leave when Mary offered her hand. "Come along, poppet, we shall find you a coat to cover that up with for now."_

_All was silent in the sitting room until Mary returned sans Molly. She was glaring at Sherlock. "What do you think you're doing? You are hurting a nice girl, Mister Holmes. Do not treat her as some common harlot. From what John tells me, you fancy the girl, so why are you suddenly so callous?"_

_"It was a moment of weakness and it shall never happen again," Sherlock replied. "I haven't the slightest idea what came over me."_

_"Well," Mary huffed, "the next time you feel the urge to canoodle with some poor unsuspecting girl, be sure to think with the right head." _

_Sherlock blanched at her words. He felt guilty for the mess he had now caused. Sure, he had been smitten with Molly, but nothing was more important than the work…at least that's what he continued to tell himself. _

_The detective stood when Molly appeared in the sitting room after having chosen a lovely plum coloured coat with a high collar. "Thank you, Mrs. Watson," she blushed. "I promise I will return your coat as soon as possible."_

_"Not to worry, dear, you may keep it. The colour contrasts beautifully with your dark hair," Mary told her kindly. "You may call me Mary. Shall I call you Margaret?"_

_"Molly is preferable," she answered._

_"We should get going," Sherlock interjected. "It is quite late already."_

_"Yes, of course, we probably should," Molly agreed. "Thank you again, Mary."_

_"It was nothing, Molly," she replied. "Please come by for tea sometime." As Sherlock and Molly made their way down the foyer, Mary Watson couldn't help but notice his hand hovering over the small of her back. It had been automatic, as if it were a habit. The longer he denied his heart's desire, the more he would come to regret having done so. _

* * *

**2016**

221B was a madhouse for the next two mornings. Molly had been staying there, burning the midnight oil with Sherlock on this case. His wall was covered with the crime scene photos and newspaper clippings that claimed we had a modern day Jack the Ripper on our hands. Mrs. Hudson had been in and out making sure they were properly feeding themselves. To Molly's surprise, Sherlock had eaten twice although it was unusual for him during a case.

"I just don't understand," she finally voiced aloud, curled up into a ball in Sherlock's chair. "Serial killers like these are usually dying to show off. Where are the taunting notes or the complex clues they leave about that make them feel so clever?"

Sherlock felt guilt wash over him. He hadn't shown Molly the note that had been left at the crime scene. "There was something," he began, "at the last crime scene with the two girls." He shifted his eyes, hesitating to look at her reaction. Molly was now sitting straight up, and looking as if she couldn't figure out why he hadn't told her. "It was a riddle."

"Can I see it?" she asked impatiently.

Sherlock sighed. "I don't have it, but I can tell you what it said." He sat upon the sofa before speaking the words aloud. "I am the Hunter, but you're not the prey. Your heart will be torn asunder. Think of your family; it will pave the way. Does the devil live within me? You wonder." He gauged her reactions as he recited it word for word. Molly remained curious throughout most of it, but seemed she had come to a conclusion when he read the last half.

"Think of your family; it will pave the way," Molly repeated. "Does the devil live within me?" An answer seemed to hit her full force. "I was born with the Devil in me."

Sherlock stood, taking the few steps to close the distance between them. "Molly? What is it?"

"Think of famous serial killers, Sherlock," she told him. "What happened in America after The Ripper disappeared?"

Realisation dawned on him. "H.H. Holmes," he answered. "Our killer is obsessed with H.H. Holmes, but he didn't murder like this; The Ripper did."

"Maybe they were one in the same," Molly suggested. "It did seem strange that the murders stopped here when H.H. Holmes began a spree in America. And by changing up how he murdered people, nobody would think the two were actually the same person."

Sherlock ran a hand through his curls. "There is one problem, though," he told her. "We share a last name, but the man was born as Herman Webster Mudgett."

"Holmes was his mother's maiden name," Molly informed him. "I'm not saying you are related to him, but this copycat killer seems to think so. If you do have ties to him, then this killer might be related too."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sherlock plopped down on the sofa. "Can't I have one break from murderous family?" he pleaded to no one in particular. "Just one. Break." Molly's heart broke for him, knowing that this was the last thing he needed whilst he was still trying to process what had happened at Sherrinford. She moved out of Sherlock's chair, and sat beside him, her arms wrapped around his torso, and her head resting over his chest.

She lifted her head to look at him, his face taut with the stress he was feeling. "Let's step away from the case for now," she suggested. "I know that's not what you do, but I think you should. We'll find something fun to do."

Like clockwork, John strolled into the flat with Rosie who could now walk as long as you held her hand. She was wobbly when she tried it by herself, but refused to be carried any longer. Rosie was definitely her mother's daughter, independent and determined as she was. "Sorry to interrupt, but I have to go into the surgery today, and hoped—"

"Yes!" Molly jumped up, appearing to frighten John just a little bit. "Of course, we can watch Rosie, right Sherlock?"

"Yes, of course we can." He was rubbing his hands over his face, willing the stress to go away.

"Well…alright then," John remarked. "Thank you. Here are her things." He handed off the bag to Molly.

Rosie was now crawling toward her godfather calling out for "Unca Wock." Sherlock flashed her soft smile, and picked her up to sit on his lap when she reached her arms up, the tension leaving him if only for a bit.

"Is he alright?" John asked Molly quietly, having remembered how tense Sherlock seemed when he first arrived.

"It's been…difficult," Molly told him. "There may be another murderous family relation on the loose right now."

John's jaw dropped. "You're kidding?"

Molly shook her head. "There's a real chance that we're dealing with a Holmes."

"Jesus," John sighed. "Well, I hope this gives you two some reprieve from it, then. I have to go, but I'll be back around six-ish."

"Alright," Molly nodded. When John took his leave, she turned around to find Rosie throwing her arms around Sherlock who was holding the little girl close. It brought tears to her eyes knowing how much Sherlock loved their goddaughter. Rosie had him wrapped around her little finger. "What do you say we do a little shopping?"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side ever so slightly, confusion plain on his face. "What for?"

"Well, it's nearly mid-October, and Rosie doesn't have a costume yet," Molly explained.

Looking at the golden-haired baby girl in his arms, Sherlock asked her, "Ready for an adventure, Watson?" Rosie clapped her hands excitably in response. "The game is on, then!"

* * *

Though they had her stroller with them, Rosie was adamant about walking, so Sherlock and Molly held her hands, sometimes swinging her between them gently just to get a few giggles. There were quite a few costumes to choose from, but nothing caught Rosie's eye until they turned the corner. "Bee!" she shouted. "Aunt Mowwy, bee!" It was a black and yellow striped bumblebee dress with tulle netting as the skirt. It came with an antenna headband and wings that were worn over the shoulders. "You bee, Aunt Mowwy!"

"What do you mean, sweetheart?" Molly smiled curiously, looking up at Sherlock who now looked as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Sherlock?"

"I," he paused, "may have referred to you as my…honey bee once or…twice ."

"Hun bee!" Rosie shouted, pointing at the costume.

"Well, it seems we have a winner," Molly laughed. "I'll go on and pay for this, so you two don't go wanderin' too far."

After Molly had purchased the bumblebee costume, she searched for Sherlock and Rosie. She hadn't a clue where they got off to. It wasn't as if it was difficult to spot those onyx curls in crowd with the height he had. She eventually spotted them at another register, having just purchased something.

"What's in the bag?" she asked when he made his way over towards her. Rosie reached up to Molly who then scooped her up in her arms.

"Our costumes," he replied matter-of-factly.

"Since when do you dress up for Halloween? And what are these costumes?" Molly asked, trying to peer inside the bag.

"Ah, well, you see, that's for me to know and you to find out," he teased. "I'll show you when we return. Are we ready?"

"Think so," Molly replied.

"How sweet," said a kind, feeble voice belonging to an elderly woman. "You don't see family outings happen very often anymore. How old is your little girl."

Molly stifled a laugh. "Oh, she's no—"

"Nearly a year old now," Sherlock replied, interrupting Molly.

"She is darling," the old woman cooed. "Lucky parents, you are."

Molly was speechless, allowing Sherlock to do all the talking, though she smiled in response.

"We sure are," Sherlock agreed just before the woman went off further into the store. He then looked at Molly, his eyes a brilliant shade of icy blue. "We're very lucky godparents."

* * *

One week later, Molly had gone so far down the research rabbit hole, it was nearly two-thirty in the morning when she stumbled across a name that brought the riddle to the forefront of her mind. It appeared that one of H.H. Holmes's children, Lucy Theodate Holmes, had once been to a man by the name of James Douglas Hunter. "I am the hunter," Molly repeated aloud. "Hunter was capitalized."

She read on to find out that marriage only lasted four years due to the fact that Hunter was not ready to settle down after all. No children were mentioned, but Molly was sure a child coming into the picture is exactly why the divorce happened. Lucy most likely brought the child to an orphanage. There was no trace of their offspring anywhere, but Molly knew there had to be one if this psychopath claimed to be related to Sherlock and was a Hunter.

She pulled her eyes away from the computer, removing her reading glasses to rub her eyes. Exhausted as she was, it was imperative that she try to get to the bottom of this case. Now, she knew what Sherlock felt like. Molly eyed her costume draped over the back of the sofa. It was a tattered bluish-white wedding dress in the style of Emily's from one of Molly's favourite movies, Corpse Bride. Sherlock was to be dressed as Victor, which wasn't much different than dressing in his own clothes.

Her mobile rang just then, Sherlock's photo popping up on screen. "Hello?" Molly answered.

"I think you ought to come 'round, Molly," he told her.

* * *

Sitting in his chair by the lit fire, Sherlock Holmes held his phone in his right hand and an old photo dated back in 1894 in his left where his and Molly's faces stared back at him.

* * *

**1894**

_Watson was wrong. He did not fancy Miss Hooper, and that fact did not change just because he snogged her senselessly. It did not mean anything. He repeated the mantra in his head, unaware that it he was having a difficult time convincing himself of it. Romantic entanglements were beneath him, and he mentally berated himself for allowing her to get around his perfectly built walls. She made them crumble, but he would not allow her to do so any longer. Though he was angry with her and himself, Sherlock was taken aback when she appeared downstairs, bag in hand. _

_"Where do you think you're going?" he snapped._

_"I'm leaving," she answered, "I thought it was fairly obvious."_

_"You will not be leaving, Miss Hooper, it is too dangerous for you to be on your own," Sherlock stated. _

_Molly tossed her bag on the sofa and stormed her way over to where he was standing by the fireplace, the light of the flame flickering against the damask wallpaper. "Make up your mind then! I refuse to be treated like this, Mister Holmes. You run hot and cold, and the one thing your miniscule brain cannot seem to do is make a clear decision about your personal relationships. I am either a hindrance or a help to you." Her face was burning with anger. "Oh wait, that's right, I am only a help to you when you cannot keep your urges in check. I am nothing more than a play thing to you, and I forbid you to kiss me ever again! You do not feel anything for me, and it was a dirty rotten game to play, making me believe you actually had a heart!"_

_The color drained from Sherlock's face as she shouted at him, rightfully so. Never before had anyone ever called him out on his shortcomings…at least not in such an aggressive manner. Before he had time to open his mouth in response, the press stormed into the sitting room of 221B. As Molly turned to see their entrance, a photo was taken of the two of them, neither looking particularly happy. Questions were being shouted at them left and right pertaining to the gruesome murders. _

_"Who is this, Mister 'Olmes?" one reporter asked, motioning towards Molly._

_"That's Doctor Margaret Hooper," another one answered._

_"Are you courting her?"_

_"Is she helping with the case?"_

_One deep breath, and Sherlock took on the crowd, answering their questions as best as he could. When he finally managed to push the last one out of the room, he closed the door behind him swiftly, locking it up for good measure. His eyes flickered over to where Molly had stayed seated in his chair by the fire._

_"If you want to leave, I will not stop you," he spoke softly. "I am sorry, Miss Hooper."_

_"Thank you," she replied scornfully. Molly stood and retrieved her bag from the sofa. Sherlock stepped aside from the door upon opening it for her._

_"Molly," he said, his voice nearly a whisper. "I won't keep you from this case. If you would still like to help, that is."_

_"I do not think it is a good idea," she told him. "Goodbye, Mister Holmes."_

* * *

**Author's Note: **1894 Molly has set off on her own, unwilling to put up with Sherlock's hot and cold attitude. I don't actually know H.H. Holmes's mother's maiden name (there is nothing on his mother), but I made it so this would make a bit of sense lol! And his daughter, Lucy, wasn't reported to have had a child, but I found it interesting that after 4 years of marriage, her first husband suddenly wasn't ready to settle down. What do you think of Sherlock and Molly's costumes? or Rosie's?


	6. I'll Find a Way to You

**2016**

Molly rushed up the stairs to 221B, throwing the door open with such force, it caused Sherlock to jump.

"What is it?" she asked, hesitance in every step she took towards him. He was looking down at something—a photograph, perhaps—and his face showed no emotion other than shock.

"It's…" he began, "us." Sherlock felt, rather than saw, Molly hovering beside him.

"Sherlock…" what she saw was their faces staring back at them, the wallpaper backdrop not dissimilar to the flat they now stood in. "That's us…that's how I see you in those dreams…is that how you see me?"

"Yes," he admitted. "My mother sent this to me; she thought we would be interested."

"Ha!" Molly laughed in disbelief. "Well, this confirms it."

"We had past lives…as…ourselves?" Sherlock asked. "Strange how past lives are depicted as the same soul in a different body."

"Maybe it's one of those star-crossed things," Molly suggested. Sherlock only frowned in confusion. "Perhaps we wanted to be together in a different life, and for whatever reason, it didn't work out." Still nothing. "It sounds crazy, I know, but it's the only thing that makes sense."

"Preposterous," Sherlock muttered. "How can this be?" Everything he had known to be true had turned on its head. He focused in on Molly's face. "Why do you look so upset?"

Molly took a closer look. Most Victorian photographs upheld a serious, unpleasant feel, but Sherlock was right; she looked distraught. "You don't look very happy either," she pointed out. He appeared to be uncomfortable. "Something unsettling must have occurred just before the photograph was taken," she reasoned.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade rushed into the flat. "We found another victim, and it's much more gruesome than before."

"Do you need me too?" Molly asked.

"We'll be alright, Molls," Greg assured her. "Anderson is on the scene."

Sherlock groaned at this. Turning to Molly, he said, "I'll be back as soon as possible."

"Promise?" Molly asked, a small smile forming on her lips.

"I promise," he assured her. "I love you."

Molly opened her mouth to speak the words he so wanted to hear, but nothing came out but a strangled gasp. She closed her eyes in defeat. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock molded his hand around her shoulder. "It's alright. I understand." A tear fell from Molly's eye and hit the back of his hand. "I know you love me."

Smiling at his acknowledgement, she wiped another tear from her eye. "Solve me a murder, Sherlock."

* * *

There was a strong stench of copper and decay in the alley where the victim was found. Sherlock Holmes held a handkerchief dabbed in vapor rub to his nose to avoid the putrid scent. The victim was definitely a woman, possibly in her early thirties. She was hardly recognizable what with her organs spilling out every which way. Upon closer inspection, there appeared to be scratches all over her exposed bosoms. The only organ that was missing was—

"Where's her stomach?" Sherlock asked.

"Over here!" Anderson shouted by the dumpsters.

"Her stomach?" Sherlock asked once more.

"No," Anderson replied, "I found another victim."

"Jesus," Lestrade remarked. "Let's get her out of there!"

The woman had been retrieved from the dumpster carefully as to not disturb whatever clues they could get from her. Sherlock was glad for once that Molly was not here. She was tough, but the grisly scene was nearly too much for even him to handle.

"Seems like the intestines are missing," Anderson informed them. "Everything else is accounted for."

Sherlock studied the corpse further. "There," he pointed below her abdomen. "Her bladder is gone as well." Their modern day Ripper was collecting organs, but for what purpose? Were organs his consolation prize after committing such a crime? "That leaves the brain and heart."

"Don't forget the skin," Anderson reminded him. "It's not commonly known that it's—"

"The largest organ of the body, yes, I know," Sherlock finished in agitation. Volatile images of a poor unsuspecting woman being skinned alive plagued his mind, making him shudder. The consulting detective was never squeamish, but this case had him feeling uneasy. Perhaps Molly was right; he jumped right into things too quickly after Sherrinford. It was too late, though. Sherlock would never forgive himself if he quit the case now, especially when all of these women had been put through so much pain.

"Calm down, it'll be alright," Greg spoke into his phone. "You know he will. We'll find her."

An uneasiness coursed through Sherlock's body. There was a lump in his throat, and he felt as though he was going to be sick. Flashes of a torture scene flickered in his mind. There was a young woman, but he couldn't make out her features. The street was spinning—no, he was falling—down, down, down.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted, running over to him. It was the last thing the detective heard before everything went black.

* * *

**1894**

_Restlessness plagued Molly Hooper for the rest of the night. Her mind was racing after her tiff with Sherlock. What distressed her most was that she was no closer to fin__ding Meena's murderer. Her father was asleep on the settee in the sitting room, snoring peacefully. She thought of the new friend she had in Mrs. Watson. Molly had only seen her at the hospital a handful of time, and attended to her twice since Doctor Mudgett's disappearance. _

_It was at that moment that everything clicked into place. Mudgett disappeared shortly before the murders began…could it be? No. Molly shook the thought from her head. It had to be a coincidence. Sherlock's hand-me-down words from the eldest Holmes brother entered her mind._

_What do we say about coincidence? The universe is rarely so lazy._

_"Oh, God," Molly muttered, wasting no time. "I'll be back, father. I need to see a man about a murder."_

_Fastening her cloak around her shoulders, and drawing up her hood, Molly set off for Baker Street. The hansoms had no business running this late, so she knew she'd have to make the trip on foot. With every step, her anxiety grew. Baker Street was only a few streets away; it would take her no longer than twenty minutes. With that knowledge, she picked up her speed, moving at a near-run. No matter what she heard, saw, or felt, Molly Hooper did not stop for any of it. The best thing was for her to keep moving steadily, onward to 221B._

_Though it was probably paranoia, Molly felt a pair of eyes watching her the entire time. She nearly squealed with delight was the door to Sherlock's flat came into view. She shouted his name as loudly as she could muster. Just as her hand reached for the knocker, a cold, clammy hand pulled her back. A bloodcurdling scream ripped from her lips, alerting nearly every tenant on the street. A cloth was being held against her mouth now, making her sink into the inky blackness of unconsciousness._

* * *

_Sherlock Holmes was pacing, his mind moving at speeds he could not fathom. Why did he have to allow his damn pride to get in the way of everything? Why could he not allow himself to give in to the love of the most captivating woman he had ever encountered? Margaret Hooper had put him in his place, and rightly so. He needed to apologise. There was no way around it. _

_"Sherlock!"_

_He knew that voice. It was Molly. She came back._

_Sherlock's heart nearly leapt out of his chest. He ran to the window, and threw it open in an effort to speak with her, but as he did so, a bloodcurdling scream reverberated throughout the entire street. _

_"Molly?" He searched the street from above, but there was no sign of her._

_"Molly, where are you?" he shouted. When no answer came, he rushed down the stairs and out the door, his bare feet hitting the freezing the ground. _

_"Molly!? Oh God," he cried, his breathing heavy. "No. No, no, no!"_

_"Snap out of it!" Mycroft shouted in his mind palace. "Concentrate. Which direction did she come from? In which direction did she possibly go?"_

_Sherlock scanned his surroundings. She came from the left side of the street if she came from her home. Whoever took her was obviously going in the same direction, but did not take the risk of dragging her down the street. He could have disappeared down an alley for a quick getaway. This madman had Molly, and Sherlock Holmes was going to do everything in his power to save her._

_"Lestrade." Yes, he needed to go to Scotland Yard immediately. A search needed to be organised and soon._

* * *

**2016**

_I'll burn the heart out of you._

Jim Moriarty's words circled his mind as he came to. The first thing he saw was a bright light, the faces in the room fuzzy. As his sight began to clear, he noticed Greg's sullen expression. A chilling scream only he could hear came to the detective's mind. It belonged to Molly. He knew it did.

"Molly," Sherlock croaked. "She's gone, isn't she?"

"Kidnapped," Greg confirmed. "She isn't dead—not yet. A note was found taped to your door, though."

Sherlock snatched it, sitting right up in the hospital bed. "Margaret Hooper had morbid humour; too bad she never wed. She fell apart with a broken heart, and all they found was her head." He felt nauseous, his stomach doing somersaults. "Oh God," he cried. "We have to find her! Right now!" He thrashed about in the bed, pulling out the IV in his arm.

Nobody argued with him or advised him to stay in bed. They knew what Molly meant to Sherlock. He wouldn't allow anything or anybody to get in his way. "Ughhhh," he doubled over in pain, the room spinning. Instead of fighting it, he allowed the visions to come.

_The land was familiar, sprawling every which way. In the distance, he could see a manor. There was no denying it. He was at Musgrave Hall, only the outlines of the funny gravestones were visible from where he stood. Moriarty's voice began singing in his ear, "Sherlock Holmes upon his throne like to slay the dragons. He loved to roam amongst funny gravestones, before he fell off the wagon."_

Gasping for air, Sherlock came to once more. "I know where she's been taken." He turned to Lestrade. "Organise a search party. We're going to Musgrave Hall."

* * *

John Watson woke to a rapping on the door. "Bloody hell," he groaned. "What now?"

"What is it?" Mary asked tiredly.

"John, please, open up!" Sherlock's voice called out.

The Watsons were up and out of bed faster than light. John answered the door, noting the anguish on Sherlock's face.

"Molly's been taken," he panted.

"Where?" Mary asked, fear gripping her heart.

"Musgrave Hall," Sherlock replied heavily. "John, I would normally recruit you for this, but I need Mary's skillset. It's too important."

John nodded. "Of course, yeah. I'll stay with Rosie."

Mary was off to get dressed, and returned no more than five minutes later. "Let's go."

* * *

**1894**

_Funny Gravestones. Sherlock was trying to recall the significance of it. He searched his mind palace, diving into the depths of it, until finally, it occurred to him where Molly could have been taken._

_"Musgrave Hall," Sherlock told Lestrade. "Miss Hooper was taken to Musgrave Hall; it was my former childhood home."_

_"Why would he take her there?" Lestrade inquired. "She has no connection to the place…does she?"_

_Flashes of his now-deceased sister came to mind. There was another girl present too with chestnut locks, her nose upturned just like—_

_"I," Sherlock began, "I think I grew up with her…how on earth did I forget?" _

_They took a hansom cab to the nearest train station, and whilst on board, Sherlock delved deeper into his repressed memories. He remembered Eurus being jealous that he would choose to play with Molly rather than her. Then, there was the day that Eurus had trapped Molly in the well that sat within the woods surrounding his family home. After saving her, Sherlock never saw her again until this year. He hadn't even remembered her; his best friend from childhood. Then again, he realised, she hadn't recognised him either._

_Lestrade studied the detective before him, noting that he was in deep thought. A sorrowful look came upon his face. "What's wrong?"_

_Snapping out of it, Sherlock had the detective inspector repeat the question. "What's wrong is that I completely pushed away any memories of Molly from when we were children. I have been a right foul git to her. Aside from that, she may or may not be trapped in a well. We have to save her."_

_"We will, Sherlock." Lestrade didn't show it, but he was afraid they were already too late._

* * *

_"Somebody help!" Molly shouted into the endless darkness. She hadn't a clue where she was, but it was dark, cold, and damp. One thing she knew was that she wasn't outside. Otherwise, she would be pelted with raindrops right now. _

_A cold, sinister laugh echoed through the room. A man in a bowler hat peered out from the shadows, and into what little light there was. "There is nobody to help you, my dear."_

_"Who are you!?" she demanded. "If I am going to die, then you might as well tell me!"_

_The man stepped closer towards her until they were face to face, his mustache nearly brushing her nose. "The name is Doctor Henry Mudgett," he replied. "Nice to see you again, Doctor Hooper."_

_"You," Molly gasped. "You were Mary's doctor; the one that disappeared into thin air."_

_He chuckled in amusement. "Yes, but I am known under a different moniker now, Doctor Hooper. I use my mother's maiden name. I believe that my cousin harbours deep feelings for you."_

_Molly looked at him with questioning eyes._

_"H.H. Holmes is the name now. I believe you've met my cousin, Sherlock?"_

* * *

**Author's Note:** Dun dun dun! Only 1 person between this site and Ao3 has guessed the murderer correctly in the Victorian era! The present day one is an original character of my own, but still related. What did you think of the little twist that Sherlock and Molly had spent a short part of their childhood together?


	7. Off With Your Head

**Author's Note: I am giving a warning that this chapter is very dark. What happens in it was planned from the very beginning, and it was difficult for me to write. Due to the dual timelines, there is a happy ending and a sad one. Be prepared. There will be an epilogue posted either before or on Halloween.**

* * *

**2016**

By the time they reached Musgrave Hall, most of the search party felt hopeless. A few felt they wouldn't find anything, and other thought Molly to be dead by now. Greg, Mary, and Sherlock were the only ones who still had hope they would find her alive.

"But how do you know she's alive?" they'd ask Sherlock.

Annoyed with the constant inquiries, he snapped, "I just do! If Molly was dead, I would feel it. She's here and she's alive. Now, are we going to just sit around and ask pointless questions, or are we going to find her!?" Satisfied that he was able to shut them up, Sherlock lead them to the manor in the fog.

"You don't think she was stuck in that well we found John in, do you?" Greg asked.

"No," Sherlock replied simply. "She must be in the house." For the first time, Sherlock wasn't all too sure of where she was being held, but the house was more likely than the well.

Whilst Mary went downstairs into the basement, Sherlock took upstairs to search the bedrooms. Greg remained in the main area with some backup. The rest of the group searched around the house for any signs of disturbance. Nobody dared to call out her name for fear of being unable to catch this man by surprise.

Sherlock crept up the stairs slowly, careful to not make a sound despite the age of the old home. The cold stung him, seeping into his bones. He was having trouble keeping his emotions in check, his heart aching. Full of worry, he was, as he searched his parents' old room, finding nothing but dusty old furniture. Up next was Mycroft's old room, filled with cobwebs and charred pages from books. Eurus's old room was more familiar; it had only been three months since he was in there with her.

Outside, dark clouds were rolling in, threatening a nasty storm. Sherlock approached the windows in Eurus's room to survey the weather. The sky was changing fast. As the sky filled, darkness loomed over them, enveloping the night into a pitch black. Thunder roared, shaking the foundation. A scream was heard all throughout the house. He ran as fast as he could towards his old bedroom, visions swimming in his eyes, images of the past jumping out at him.

The door to his old room was wide open, his Belstaff flying behind him as he rushed inside. The door slammed suddenly, and Sherlock tried to open it up again, but to no avail, it wouldn't budge. A lockless door had locked itself. This was beyond Sherlock's comprehension. He didn't believe in the supernatural. None of this was logical. Frustrated he turned around to survey the room, only to find Molly's head lying in the middle of the floor. No man had ever shouted in as much agony as Sherlock Holmes did in that moment.

* * *

**1894**

_"You disgust me," Molly spat. "How dare you take a doctor's oath to do no harm only to murder people for harvesting their organs!"_

_ "Well, my dear," he chuckled. "I did not murder those women for the organs; that was merely a bonus." Holmes flashed a wicked grin. "I was born with the devil in me. I could not help the fact that I was a murderer, no more than the poet can help the inspiration to sing—I was born with the 'Evil One' standing as my sponsor beside the bed where I was ushered into the world, and he has been with me since."_

_ Chills ran down Molly's spine. This was no man. She had been rendered absolutely speechless. She hadn't the slightest clue how this demon was related to Sherlock. The detective had his shortcomings, but he was not a bad man. All Holmes was doing was quietly observing her, his eyes boring into her, leaving a scar that could not be seen._

_ He dropped to the ground, making her attempt to inch away from him, but she ran into the stone cold wall, the water seeping into her clothes. Holmes continued to crawl toward her, his hand outstretched for her corset. Molly's leg flew up, kicking him in the throat._

_ "You little bitch," he growled hoarsely. "You'll pay for that!" He pulled out his dagger and cut open the laces of her corset. "By the time my worthless cousin gets here, your heart will be in my hands."_

_ Molly fought back as much as she possibly could. With each ounce of her strength, she continued to tussle with him, hoping to buy Sherlock some time. With every hit she got in, Holmes sliced her with the dagger. "Sherlock!" she screamed at the top of her lungs._

_ Tossing his dagger aside, Holmes wrapped his hands around her throat tightly, but not enough to kill her; he wanted to damage those damn vocal chords so that he voice wouldn't carry. The sound of her struggle was music to his ears. "There," he said when he let her go. "Try and scream now." _

_ Tears slid down her face as Molly realised she couldn't even speak, let alone breathe properly. This really was the end._

* * *

_ Sherlock, Lestrade, and the others spread out through the property in search of Molly. The well was the very first place he decided to search, though a niggling voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Mycroft told him it was too obvious. The murderer would expect him to check the well first. Any form of logic flew out of his mind. Molly was in danger, and his emotions were being brought to the surface._

_ "Molly!" he shouted when the well came into view. He broke into a run, hoping against all hope that she was there and alive. Lowering the lantern as far as his arm could reach, Sherlock peered inside, but there was nothing there. The well had dried up. "Damn it!" He kicked the ground hard. "Where is she!?"_

_ "We'll find her, Holmes," Lestrade assured him. The detective inspector wasn't so sure they'd find her alive. "Let's check the house."_

_ "Too obvious," Sherlock remarked. "Send the others into the woods."_

_ Lestrade nodded, and gathered the search party to delegate search areas. As he turned around to find Sherlock, he noticed him heading in the direction of the house anyways. "Sherlock?"_

_ No answer came. Sherlock Holmes broke out into a full run towards Musgrave Hall. The stench of blood—tang and coppery—hit his nose when he entered the house. There was a blood trail leading down toward the basement, and for once, Sherlock was thankful this villainous entity wasn't very bright. He had to repeatedly remind himself that just because there was blood, it did not necessarily mean she was dead, only that she needed medical attention._

_ Upon entering the dark, damp basement, Sherlock shone his lantern into the darkest corners, finding one particular spot hidden through an alcove. Lying upon the dirt ground was a corset with the laces cut through. Blood was everywhere, marking the ground he walked upon. He desperately tried to swallow the lump in his throat._

_ Sherlock raced upstairs, straight into his old bedroom, his shouts of terror and agony being heard all throughout the property. _

_ "She fell apart with a broken heart, and all they found was her head." Moriarty's voice taunted him in his mind palace. Sherlock dropped to the floor in a painful rage, the force of his fists hitting the wooden boards had Molly Hooper's head rolling towards him._

_ When Lestrade found him, his fears were confirmed. Sherlock Holmes was in complete anguish, his tall form suddenly small as he laid there on the floor unable to take his eyes off of Molly's brown ones. _

_"It's all wrong," Sherlock sobbed. "Her eyes will never hold another brilliant sparkle again." He pounded his fist against the floor. "Dammit! This can't be happening." Another round of sobs wracked his body. "This. Can't. Be. Happening!" _

_"Sher—"_

_"I never even told her," Sherlock continued. "I was stupid, and pigheaded. Molly, I love you. I love you so much, my darling. Please, wake me up from this nightmare. You're not really dead. You can't be."_

_"Lestrade!" Anderson shouted outside. "We found a note!"_

_These words did not affect Sherlock. It was as if he was numb. Reluctantly, Lestrade left Sherlock to grieve whilst he studied the note that was found._

_It read: 'Margaret Hooper will be found dead. James told you from the start. All that is left is her bleedin' head, and it was I who stole her heart.'_

* * *

**2016**

When he blinked, there was nothing there. It was a hallucination—or more likely at this point, a vision from the past. His past self lost Molly to the deranged H.H. Holmes. Relief flooded through him knowing there was still a chance. His instincts told him to head out into the woods, and so he ran, shouting all the while to announce to everyone that they should follow him.

Upon reaching the edge of the woods, Sherlock slowed, his feet heading toward the thick of it. It felt as if he were being guided by some unseen force. Lestrade and Mary stuck with Sherlock whilst the others split up in teams of three to search the sprawling land. Surveying the many paths he could take, Sherlock noticed a glimmer up ahead.

"I'll take the right," Mary told them. "Greg, take the left."

"No," Sherlock told them. "She's up ahead." The closer he approached the glimmer in the distance, the clearer it became. After tonight, there would be no denying the existence of the supernatural. A translucent image of Molly—her past self—was waiting for him. "I don't understand; if our past souls are within us, how can you be a ghost?"

"Who's he talkin' to?" Greg asked Mary discreetly. Mary only smiled, for she saw the spirit of Molly's former self too.

"Her lifeline is wavering; there is a bunker between those trees," the Victorian Molly informed him. "I am merely a sign that she is not yet lost, for seeing your Molly would suggest she has passed on. My body was left in that bunker whilst my head was left for my Sherlock to find in Musgrave Hall." She paused a moment. "For what it's worth, my love, I love you too."

Sherlock nodded sympathetically, tears welling up in his eyes, as he watched the spirit fade away. He then broke into a run towards the bunker, Greg and Mary at his heels. Once inside, they heard Molly's voice followed by a man's shout of pain. They took the stairs spiraling downward quickly, the scene before them quite fantastic. There was blood all over Molly's clothes, but her kidnapper had a scalpel sticking out of his eye.

"Molly!" Sherlock shouted in pure unadulterated relief, ignoring the man who had taken her. Due to him being in severe pain, Lestrade and Mary had the cuffs slapped on him in no time.

"Cousin," he growled. "Like my handiwork?" He gestured to Molly, which upon closer inspection, had been sliced several times with medical instruments. She swayed with wooziness from the blood loss.

Sherlock ran over to her, swiftly lifting her small form in his arms. "Lestrade, do we have medical transport ready?"

"Yes," he answered. "Get her out of here quickly. Mary and I'll take care of our ripper."

He ran the hell out of there, praying to a God he didn't believe in that Molly would stay conscious. She was doing so well, her eyes on him. Sherlock felt her arms tighten around him, squeezing him affectionately. When they were safely in the helicopter, Sherlock felt he could breathe again. Whilst the paramedics worked on closing her wounds, he heard her call his name, her voice hoarse.

"What is it, darling?" he asked her, his hand stroking her cheek.

Just before she lost consciousness, Molly uttered the three words she had been so hesitant to repeat. "I love you."

* * *

It was so bright. Her throat felt dry and sore. As her eyes fluttered open, Molly Hooper was greeted by the sight of Sherlock in the chair beside her hospital bed, his eyes red and puffy.

"Oh thank God," he let out, smoothing her hair back with his calloused fingers. "You scared me, you know…when you passed out. I thought you'd never wake."

Molly's heart ached with a burning intensity. She reached out towards the cup of water. Sherlock retrieved it, and helped her sit up to drink it. The cool water provided much relief. "You found me."

"I did," Sherlock replied, not quite believing it himself, running his hand through his disheveled curls.

"Sherlock," she said softly, her hand open and waiting for his. When his hand was in hers she held on tightly. "I love you. I'm sorry it took me so long."

"Shhh, don't fret about it, Molly," he told her. "Just focus on healing; you've had a blood transfusion due to the amount of blood you lost."

"Sherlock," Greg peeked in. "You ready?"

"Wha—where are you going?" Molly asked frightfully.

"I'll be back in an hour," Sherlock assured her. "Time to face the Devil." He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. "John and Mary should be here any minute with Rosie to keep you company whilst I'm gone. I need to finish this."

Molly nodded in understanding. "His name's Henry Hunter, but he is descended from H.H. Holmes's daughter, Lucy." Sherlock processed the information, and left with Lestrade, passing the Watsons in the corridor.

* * *

"Cousin," Hunter sneered at the sight of Sherlock Holmes.

"Why did you do it!?" Sherlock roared, slamming his hand on the table in the interrogation room. "Why did you kill those women, and why did you go after Molly!?" Another slam shook the table.

Normally, Lestrade would reel him in, but he stood back and let Sherlock do all the talking.

"You disgust me, ignoring your true nature. We are descended from one of the most infamous murderers of all time, and you choose to be on the side of the angels," Hunter spat.

Moriarty's words haunted him once more. "But _why_," Sherlock growled. "And do not give me that 'I was born with the devil in me' speech!"

"I was simply finishing what our ancestor began. He had killed your Molly in the past, but failed in taking you along, though I suppose the emotional trauma had to do," Hunter explained. "Just as he did, I was collecting organs from each murder. All I needed was Molly's heart and your brain."

"All for what!?"

"Revenge, cousin, for not honoring your true nature."

"Take him away," Sherlock ordered Lestrade. "I can't stand the sight of him." He left for the hospital, his sole focus on Molly. Sherlock knew he could have gladly killed the man, but knew it wouldn't do any good, though he reasoned that the man would suffer enough in Sherrinford when the cannibals get a crack at him.


	8. Epilogue

**1895**

_Sherlock Holmes checked his pocket watch for the time, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room. His eyes drifted to the photo beneath the lid. Molly Hooper's eyes stared back at him. It was from one of the many copies of the photo that had been taken by the press the day she left. He missed her so much that his heart ached consistently. It was now a year since that horrific night at Musgrave Hall. _

_ H.H. Holmes had been captured only hours after they had found Molly. The man was deranged, and Sherlock wished he could claim no relation to such a monster. He eyed the letter that had arrived earlier that morning, his name written on the envelope in Molly's hand. It had been delivered posthumously as if she had known what would have become of her. Sherlock had tried to avoid it all bloody day, but a voice—Molly's—encouraged him to open it._

_ "Go on," she would say in his mind palace. "Open it. For me."_

_ How could he say no? Reluctantly, he snatched the letter, broke the seal, and began reading the contents._

**_Sherlock, my love,_**

**_ I am sorry for the tiff we had. Lately, I have been dreaming of the strangest things and thinking dark thoughts. It could be my paranoia, but, Sherlock…I think I am going to die. I fear I may never see you again, though I will try. I wish to make up with you, but if we are not to have the chance, then I want to say that I understand. I know you love me, my darling, but I also know you were not ready. Had we had all the time in the world, we could have really built a life together. I am not sure where to go from here, but what I do know is this: our souls shall meet again and we will be legendary, you and I. My soul knows yours, and I believe we are destined for one another, but not in this life. We will find our way back to one another. I love you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and I always will._**

**_With all my love,_**

**_Molly_**

_ Sherlock smiled to himself. He normally did not believe in star-crossed lovers, but in this one case, he knew it to be true for at least him and Molly. In his heart, he knew that they would meet again in another life…and he could not wait to be reacquainted._

* * *

**2017**

"This was a fantastic idea," Molly smiled, unable to keep herself from spinning freely around the room, admiring every detail of the cottage's interior.

Sherlock, preparing cups of tea, replied, "Didn't I tell you I'd come through?" He enjoyed seeing her face light up when he brought her to the cottage. It was even more satisfying to make love in nearly every room with her after he told her he had bought it for them to escape to when a break from their fast-paced lives in London was needed.

"You did, and I love it," she beamed, approaching him, her arms wrapping around his waist. Molly pressed a kiss to his chest, where his heart beat quickened slightly at her touch.

"And I love you," Sherlock told her softly, wrapping his arms around her. "I always have." He savored the quiet, blissful moment until the mysterious envelope that had found its way to him at 221B was in his view. He had put off showing it to her for days, but figured it was time. "Molly, did I ever tell you that you left me a letter? Well, in our past lives."

"No," she frowned in confusion. "What's it say?"

Sherlock nudged his head toward the table by the front door. Curiosity got the best of Molly, and she left his side to investigate. She picked up the envelope that had Sherlock's name written across it, and noted the signs of age on the paper as she opened it. Her eyes were wide with amazement.

"Read it," Sherlock encouraged her with a smile.

"Sherlock, my love," Molly began, unable to keep from smiling herself. "I am sorry for the tiff we had. Lately, I have been dreaming of the strangest things and thinking dark thoughts. It could be my paranoia, but, Sherlock…I think I am going to die." She paused, remembering the documents they had found where Sherlock's mum found the old photo. Old newspaper articles about Molly's cause of death were brought to light.

Noticing her hesitance, Sherlock spoke up. "Go on."

Molly took a deep breath and read some more. "I fear I may never see you again, though I will try. I wish to make up with you, but if we are not to have the chance, then I want to say that I understand. I know you love me, my darling, but I also know you were not ready. Had we had all the time in the world, we could have really built a life together."

She sat upon the sofa to finish the rest, Sherlock joining her with their cups of tea he had made. "May I?" he asked, volunteering to finish reading the letter. Molly passed it into his waiting hand. "I am not sure where to go from here, but what I do know is this: our souls shall meet again and we will be legendary, you and I. My soul knows yours, and I believe we are destined for one another, but not in this life. We will find our way back to one another. I love you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and I always will."

"We found each other," Molly told him, her eyes meeting his. "Let's not waste any more time."

Confused by her latter statement, Sherlock furrowed his brows in confusion. Molly reached inside the inside pocket of his coat, lying over the back of the sofa, and retrieved a velvet adorned box.

"Yes," she told him.

Dumbstruck that she knew his secret, Sherlock's jaw dropped ever so slightly. "Yes?" he asked, unsure of what had just happened.

"Yes, I will marry you," she smiled brightly. "If I wait around until you deem it to be the perfect moment, we'll never get anywhere."

It was true. For months, Sherlock had carried this ring around with him, apparently not escaping Molly's notice. Every time he felt the moment to be perfect, something came along and ruined it.

"Marry me, Molly Hooper," he said softly. "Give me a new adventure. I want it all with you, but mostly, I just want you."

"I thought you'd never ask," she joked, handing him the box.

Sherlock lifted the vintage engagement ring from the satin lining, and took her hand in his. "I've waited over a century for this moment," he quipped, sliding the ring on her finger where it would forever remain.

* * *

**Author's Note: ****Well, that's it, y'all! Sorry again for the previous chapter. I'd be surprised if anyone even reads this last chapter, as I'm sure everyone has abandoned this fic lol. I won't be making a decision like that again, but it was necessary to demonstrate the whole star-crossed lovers aspect.**


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